


Le Bal Masqué

by lasirene



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - 18th century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/M, First Meetings, France (Country), Gen, No Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:54:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22203658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasirene/pseuds/lasirene
Summary: Christine Daae is no more than a maidservant to the Contesse de Chagny, but her singing talents have led her to perform in the annual masquerade.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 11
Kudos: 49





	Le Bal Masqué

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this series of sketches](https://klausscrimshaw.tumblr.com/post/189889402558/phantom-of-the-opera-but-its-the-18th-century-a) by K. Scrimshaw on Tumblr.
> 
> Also I did minimal research and wrote this in a haze of inspiration over just a few days, so any inaccuracies are mine!

Christine Daae was terrified.

Just weeks before, she had been no more than a maidservant to the _Countesse_ de Chagny. Now she was something more – a masked performer for the de Chagny’s masquerade ball.

Christine was a gifted singer, and all at the manor knew it. She would often sing as she worked in the de Chagny estate, while doing laundry, sewing, and cleaning. But singing to herself and being listened to by peers was far different from performing for a wealth of nobility. It had been a shock when Madame told her she would perform at their ball. Perhaps once or twice as a young girl, she had dreamed of singing classes and performing, but those dreams had been dashed after her father’s death.

Yet her father had always loved her singing, and it was the thought of him that gave her some courage. Christine fussed at her costume. She wore a new court gown of white, with minimal decoration beyond ruffles lining the front of the mantua and her sleeves, and a modestly decorated stomacher. The embroidery was black, a contrast to the otherwise white ensemble. Over her gown, she had donned a black silk domino cloak, and she wore a matching black domino mask, with silver paint decorating it. Madame had let her own hairdresser work Christine’s blonde curls into a fashionable style, rising up from her head and supported by rollers and pillows. Only a few curls were left behind, falling onto the back of her pale neck. Her hair had been powdered as well, paling the blonde curls further.

Tonight she would sing. It would only be a few songs, some of the ones her father had always loved to play for her to sing to, back in her childhood when they traveled to Paris in search of new patrons to support his work. She would sing to honor him.

It seemed fated that the knock to summon her came as her nerves finally settled. Christine drew herself tall as the door opened. She let herself be led into the ballroom and up onto the small stage.

The de Chagny’s chateau was vast, though it was nothing compared to Versailles. The masquerade could not compare to a royal ball hosted by any king, but to Christine it was the most dazzling sight she had ever witnessed. All the attending nobles were dressed in flamboyant, brilliant costumes. She saw heroes and deities of Roman myth, fantastic beasts, gorgeous evening wear beneath silken dominoes. She glimpsed Madame in the crowd, glowing in white, her mask bearing the neck and head of a swan; she only knew Madame because she had seen her costume prepared and tried on. Other costumes caught her eye – a man dressed as Jupiter, his frock coat decorated with gold-stitched lightning; a lady dressed as a unicorn. Perhaps most fascinating was the tall figure all in red, with a black, full face mask beneath a towering red hat.

Christine closed her eyes. The gaudy crowd was too distracting, full of glittering motion. She needed to focus. Her hands trembled at her sides as nerves like she had never known wracked through her.

Then the music began. It started only as violins, a familiar melody she had known all her life. She felt herself transported years back to her childhood, to her father. His hands, his face, his voice, his stories, they all swirled through her mind in a blur. Before she knew what she was doing, her mouth had opened and she began to sing.

Christine had received little training for singing; there had been a tutor, briefly, when her father was still alive and under the sweet patronage of Professor Valérius. Her voice was more raw talent and love for song than professional training, but it was a thing of beauty either way. She sang with all of her heart and all of her soul. She sang for her dear father, and knew in her heart that he smiled down on her from Heaven.

Her performance seemed to fly by, and before Christine knew it, she had been swarmed by a throng of congratulators. She accepted them all with shy gratitude, and was relieved when they had all finally left her side. Nobility made her uncomfortable, with the exception of sweet Madame, her daughters, and of course her childhood friend, Raoul. But dear, sweet Raoul de Chagny had gone away to join the Royal Navy. He was due to return home soon for leave, but Christine did not know what date he was expected.

“ _Mademoiselle_ ,” a voice came, close to her. Christine turned towards it, a shy, polite smile in place, expecting yet another nobleman praising her performance.

It was a man, but one unlike any other. It was the man in red she had seen from the stage, with the black mask. He had stood out in his bold frock and hat, but Christine saw now that he was taller than anyone else in the room. The towering hat was bursting with red dyed ostrich feathers and curtains of gossamer that hung down either side. The ostrich feathers bobbed and waved as the man inclined into a polite bow. When he straightened again, Christine could just see his eyes in the darkness behind his mask. They seemed to be almost yellow, a most intriguing yet unnerving color. His attire was all in red, though his coat was a brighter shade than his vest and breeches, and decorated with gold thread along every hem. He wore a black shirt and cravat beneath, complimenting his mask. This close to him, Christine could see the minute details of his mask, the shading that made it into a skull.

Christine returned his courtesy, though her curtsy was deep. She had not known any of the de Chagny’s guests to not be nobility as well. She did not recognize him, but then, that was the point of a masquerade. Still, she did not wish to offend any honored guest by greeting him with the wrong title.

Before she could stumble out anything, the man spoke again. “Your voice is marvelous, my dear,” the red stranger said. The mask muffled his voice, but the depth and sweetness wrapped around her heart. If angels spoke, they would sound like him. “Have you been trained?”

“Oh, no my Lord – or, Your Grace,” Christine stammered. “Forgive me, I don’t wish to offend you, but –”

“Why should I be offended? I am masked as the Red Death. I am not meant to be recognized, am I?” The man waved a black gloved hand, the white lace ruffles of his sleeves waving with the gesture. “Besides, the point of a masquerade is to mingle with those who are not your equal. You may call me Erik.”

She felt all the worse; it was out of place of her to converse with a Duke. “It is not my place to call you by your name. I’m only Madame’s maid.”

The yellowish eyes regarded her from behind the dark mask. “What is your name, _Mademoiselle_?”

“Christine. Christine Daae.”

The dark head tipped, red feathers bobbing. “Daae? I’ve heard that name before. Yes, in Paris, there was a violinist. Gustave Daae, I believe.”

Christine smiled, fond memories of her childhood travelling with her father rising in her mind again. “My father, yes. He was a talented musician. I sang with him often.”

“Ah, of course. I should have seen it. Such passion for music can only be gifted by one equally as passionate. You are lucky, Miss Daae, to have had such a father. He is missed by all of us who loved his playing.”

“You are most kind to say so, Your Grace.”

The mystery duke regarded her another moment. “Your voice is a gift, Miss Daae, one you ought to learn better. I could teach you, if you wish.”

Christine floundered. It was impolite to refuse, but overstepping her bounds to accept. “I – I –”

“Consider my offer. Speak with the Countess if you wish. But a voice such as yours deserves to be heard by the King himself, not simply a room full of Counts and less.” He pulled a small card from his sleeve in a move too fast to follow. “Write to this address, Miss Daae, when you have your answer.” He swept her a gallant bow and, dazzled with confusion, Christine curtsied. In a wave of feathers and rustle of gossamer, he swept away, vanishing into the crowd.

Christine looked at the card he had given her. The handwriting on it was brisk and cramped, but legible; there was no name, only an address in Paris. Christine frowned at it. For a moment she considered dropping it and forgetting the stranger... but she tucked it into one of her pocket bags, uncertain of her own reasons. She would speak to Madame about it and inquire after the stranger in the Red Death costume. But that would not be until tomorrow, and tonight she would steal her chance to mingle with nobility.


End file.
